


another love

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smitten!Leamas, hand-holding, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: Five times Leamas and Fiedler hold hands.





	another love

**Author's Note:**

> Just as sappy as it sounds  
> because i am too tired to write angst and sadness and these babies deserve some happiness

**another love**

 

*

The first time they hold hands, it’s completely accidental.

They are strolling through the woods again, the heels of Leamas’ brogues crunching the brittle leaves beneath his tread. It is quiet, and the only thing more harmonic than the chirping of blue jays is Fiedler’s voice.

It is silky today, as it had been yesterday. There is perplexing fragile sort of firmness to it, engaging, inviting, as if in conversation even though it is the only voice that fills the silence. It feels intensely private, this moment, and Leamas allows himself to indulge the sweet nothings of that lovely voice as it washes over him, relaxing the very tension from his shoulders.

“Oh,” Leamas looks at Fiedler, who glances at the watch secured around this thin wrist. “It’s almost time.”

“For what?” They keep walking. Fiedler turns to him for a quick second and smiles. It is barely an upturn of his lips, but Leamas sees the flash of a dimple and it does strange things to his heart.

“You’ll see,” he would have been okay with the ominous response, if Fiedler had not leant in so close.

Leamas does not expect the gloved fingers which weave themselves through his own. Fiedler’s touch is warm through the leather, and his fingers feel strong and certain as he holds Leamas’ hand and sprints quickly up the hill.

Leamas has no choice but to follow, desperately trying to quell the overwhelming beating of his heart. He does not hold hands, he _doesn’t_. It is so unnecessary and odd and feminine, and his mind trips over itself as he adjusts his grip, afraid he is holding Fiedler’s hand too tightly, too loosely, too-

_He’s holding Fiedler’s hand. He holding –_

He barely notices the moment they reach the top of the hill. The trees break suddenly and the sky appears. It houses a fading golden sun, sinking into the white line of the horizon, plastered against magnificent pinks and blues and purples. It is breathtaking.

The air is suddenly warm and heavy, unburdened by the cool breeze. From here, they can look down at the forest of pine, an unyielding green mass broken every once in a while by coloured bushes and beeches.

Neither of them speak. Leamas glances at Fiedler through the corner of his eye. The younger man is fixated on the view, the stunning mosaic of light dying his pale skin a warm amber.

He wonders if Fiedler is aware he is still holding Leamas’ hand. For a brief, wonderful moment, Leamas relishes in the contact and decides it does not matter.

*

The second time, Fiedler wraps his delicate fingers around Leamas’ knuckles to stop him squaring a guard in the jaw.

It starts out a little like this: he wonders around the lodge while Fiedler works inside, and overhears a curious conversation between the guards.

“Hast du eine Frau. Einige Hure aus der Bibliothek.” _Got himself some woman. A whore from the library._

Perhaps he should not have been so sensitive. And yet, the crunch of bone beneath his bruised knuckles is incredibly satisfying.

Fiedler rushes out when he hears the commotion, his coat forgotten in his hurry.

“Defector Schaum!” The man’s face is red, the veins on his neck bulging. He moves from his post quickly and swings, missing Leamas’ face by inches.

 _This is going to be fun._ Leamas is eager to show the guard just how a _defector scum_ can break his nose _and_ his jaw, when he feels cool fingers wrap around his fist.

“ _Leamas._ ” Fiedler’s voice is sharp, fine-tuned for warning. Leamas barely glances at him, the anger still simmering in his veins.

“Sir – the defector-”

“Das ist mir egal Hör auf, dich wie Kinder zu benehmen.” _I don’t care. Stop behaving like children._

The guard deflates. The warning in Fiedler’s voice is as recognisable as it is frightening. It is not a tone Leamas has heard before. “Jawohl.” _Yes, Sir._

“Leamas,” he speaks quietly, “calm down.”

Leamas’ fist is still clenched. Fiedler waits a moment until the guards have returned to their post, and then brushes his thumb slowly across Leamas’ bruised knuckles. It is a soft, unassuming touch, quiet in nature. Leamas wonders if it is accidental until Fiedler does it again – the pad of his thumb tracing the veins, his slender fingers curling gently around one large hand. It eases the tension right from Leamas’ fist and weakens his resolve. In a moment, the anger begins to fade.

His fingers are loose, no longer clenched. Fiedler holds onto his hand a second longer before he lets go, and Leamas feels oddly bereft when he does.

*

The third time, it is far more personal.

The bed gently creaks with their movements, the springs tuned like a quiet violin. Leamas is gentle, perhaps more gentle than he has ever been.

Fiedler feels like glass beneath him. His hair is a tousled halo around face and his cheeks tinged red, head pushed back against the pillow. His knees are bent around Leamas’ hips, his lips bruised from their kisses.

One hand is braced on Leamas’ shoulder, holding the older man to him firmly as they move in tandem. The other is fisted in the mattress.

He looks beautiful like this, Leamas decides. Trembling and lovely and submissive under the caress of his calloused fingers. The dark of his eyelashes is so much more pronounced against the hollows his closed eyes. Alec’s name rolls so delicately off his tongue.

So it feels natural, really, when Leamas shifts one hand from his hips to the hand Fiedler has fisted in the mattress.

Fiedler’s eyes flutter open at the touch, and he does not look away from Leamas’ gaze when the older man turns his palm to face the ceiling and weaves their fingers gently together. He moves his arm upwards, and their joint hands end up in the space by his head. Leamas’ large fingers, his broad rough hand, cradling the fine bones with more care than he imagines he is capable of.

It feels natural indeed.

Leamas kisses the hitch of breath away as they reach catharsis. It’s a lovely scene, suspended in time. Everything about this feels terribly perfect.

Leamas does not let go of Fiedler’s hand for a long time.

*

The fourth time they hold hands, Leamas believes is the last time.

There’s a lot of blood. Leamas has seen too much in his lifetime already, but it feels particularly discerning when it’s coming out of his own body.

He doesn’t sense much, not really. His head is pillowed in Fiedler’s lap and that harmonic voice is frantic in his ear, distorted. It takes a little while for the sound to fade completely. All he sees are those lovely lips moving rapidly, miming, mute, those wide eyes glazed over with fear. Dark spots begin to dance provocatively around the edges of his vision.

He feels distant. He can almost smell the tinge of copper polluting the air, taste the blood running hot in his throat, on his tongue. It’s a peculiar sensation.

He’s drifting. His head is on Fiedler’s lap, he knows, so he hasn’t _really_ gone anywhere.

But he’s going to.

Or he thinks, until he feels a secure weight in one of his hands. It’s familiar: the thin, fine-boned fingers knitting themselves tightly between his own. The press of Fiedler’s joints against his. The touch is painfully firm and bleeds all the desperation and unspoken words in the space between them. It’s comforting, and it tethers him to the world, returns him from the nothingness he was beginning to float across.

Leamas is not a religious man, but when Fiedler holds his hand he prays it is not the last time.

*

It isn’t.

He can tell by the remarkably uncomfortably hospital bed beneath him.

Fiedler is curled in an armchair beside him, his slender figure folded spectacularly. His head rests oddly against the back of the chair. His hair is messy and there are bruise-coloured circles beneath his closed eyes. One of his arms is outstretched, his hand curled delicately by Leamas’ on the mattress.

Leamas brushes his thumb across the soft skin and indulges in the warmth. He weaves his fingers through his companions and holds his hand until he wakes.

Leamas smiles, and Fiedler smiles back, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s going to be okay.


End file.
